( Story )
Night settled over the Bi Estate with a quiet authority of its own.
Lanterns were lit one after another along the stone paths, their warm glow stretching across polished floors and carved railings. The distant murmur of the estate faded gradually as servants completed their final tasks, their footsteps soft, their voices hushed—as though the night itself demanded restraint.
By the time Ning returned to his courtyard, it was already still.
The gates closed behind him with a low, muted sound.
Servants who had followed earlier bowed and withdrew without needing instruction. One by one, their presence disappeared into the shadows, leaving only the faint rustle of fabric as they departed.
Only Tang remained.
The room inside was already prepared.
A faint scent of calming herbs lingered in the air, subtle but deliberate. The bed had been remade once again, its silk sheets smooth and untouched. A low table near the window held a simple oil lamp, its flame steady, casting soft light across the room.
Ning stood still for a moment.
Then exhaled.
Tang stepped forward quietly.
"Sit," he said gently.
Ning didn't argue.
He allowed the older man to help him remove the outer layers of his robe. The dark purple silk slid from his shoulders, replaced by a lighter night garment—soft, loose, easy against the skin. The fabric was pale, almost weightless, allowing his body to finally relax after the long day.
His black hair was untied, falling freely down his back.
For the first time since morning—
He looked his age.
Not a son-in-law.
Not a representative.
Just… young.
Tang paused.
His gaze lingered.
A quiet sigh left him.
He looks so much like A Ji Ya…
The resemblance had always been there—but in moments like this, without the stiffness of duty or the sharpness of expectation, it became undeniable.
The same eyes.
The same quiet depth.
If only she had lived to see this…
Tang lowered his gaze, pushing the thought aside.
A soft knock came at the door before a maid entered, her steps careful, her head bowed. She carried a tray with simple dishes—nothing extravagant.
A bowl of warm porridge.
Light sides.
Food meant to soothe rather than impress.
She placed it down and withdrew immediately.
Silence returned.
Ning sat down.
For a moment, he simply looked at the food.
Then—
"Eat," he said.
Tang blinked.
"Young master—"
"Sit."
The tone wasn't forceful.
But it allowed no refusal.
Tang hesitated only briefly before sitting across from him. The two ate in quiet, the only sound the faint clink of porcelain and the soft movement of spoons.
To Tang—
This felt familiar.
Not as servant and master.
But as something closer.
Zhang Wei had been like this too.
Unconcerned with rank when it came to those he trusted.
Ning placed his bowl down first.
His gaze shifted slightly.
"You said you watched Wei grow up… right?"
Tang looked up.
Then nodded.
A faint smile touched his lips—nostalgic, distant.
"He was very small when A Ji Ya gave birth to him," Tang began slowly. "Fragile… always crying. Loud enough to wake half the courtyard just to demand attention."
A soft chuckle escaped him.
"But as he grew… he changed."
Ning listened quietly, his posture relaxed but his attention focused.
"He became quieter," Tang continued. "Especially when the clan leader was harsh… on both him and his mother."
The warmth in his voice dimmed slightly.
"A Ji Ya…" he paused. "She wasn't kind either."
Ning's brows knit faintly.
"Her intentions toward the boy… were not pure," Tang said carefully. "Even though he was her son."
The words hung in the air.
Uncomfortable.
Real.
Ning said nothing—but his eyes lowered slightly, absorbing it.
"Then came the incident," Tang went on. "When Zhang Wei was drugged."
A pause.
"That was when everything changed."
Ning's fingers tightened slightly against his sleeve.
"That was when he met the maid… the one who later bore his child."
The room grew quieter.
Tang's voice softened again, taking on a tone more like a father recounting old memories.
"When he was ten," he said, a faint smile returning, "he had this strange habit."
Ning glanced up.
"He would sit alone… talking to himself."
"…Talking?" Ning repeated.
Tang nodded, amused.
"Planning things. The world, strategies, ideas… like an adult trapped in a child's body."
A quiet laugh escaped him.
"It was ridiculous… and yet… strangely impressive."
Ning's lips pressed together faintly.
He could almost picture it—
A small boy, sitting somewhere alone, speaking softly to no one, building thoughts too big for his age.
"Back then," Tang added, "he was stiff. Careful. Always watching."
His gaze softened.
"But after the core transplant…"
A pause.
"He changed."
Ning looked up again.
"His real self came out," Tang said simply. "Carefree. Unrestrained. Like he finally allowed himself to breathe."
Silence followed.
Not heavy.
Just… thoughtful.
Tang noticed the slight droop in Ning's posture, the way his eyes blinked slower now.
"You should rest," he said gently.
Ning didn't argue this time.
Tang stood, collecting the tray. His movements were slow, steady—familiar, almost paternal.
Before leaving, he paused briefly at the door.
His gaze lingered on Ning for just a second longer.
Then—
He left.
—
The room returned to stillness.
Ning sat there for a while.
Quiet.
His fingers rubbed lightly against his eyes as fatigue settled deeper into his bones.
Slowly, he stood and moved toward the bed.
The silk sheets were cool against his skin as he lay down, one arm resting over his eyes.
Zhang Wei.
The name echoed again.
But this time—
It carried something different.
Not irritation.
Not distance.
But… curiosity.
A baby crying loudly.
A quiet child speaking to himself.
A boy planning things no one else understood.
A version of his brother—
None of them had ever truly seen.
Ning exhaled slowly.
His mind tried to piece it together.
To imagine it.
But the image never fully formed.
And somewhere between thought and exhaustion—
Sleep took him.